


until it stops moving

by Marquess



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Codependency, M/M, Manipulation, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 17:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15514761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquess/pseuds/Marquess
Summary: Akira exhales, once, twice. What happened?There is a door, in a dark room, a table, a chair. No two-way mirror though, not like in the movies. He’s kicked in the ribs, repeatedly, but cannot say how many people are in there with him, the punches already got his head to spin and his vision splits like a prism.He also remembers his back to the wall, trapped by the police cars headlights like an animal.Those are the two snapshots in his head. Before that, he sits at the booth of a Big Bang Burger and chews on a straw, in downtown Okina, with the glare from the windows hurting his eyes.





	until it stops moving

Akira’s breath hitches on the first exhale as he wakes up after what seems an eternity. Should he make a top ten list of things he didn’t get paid for, this would be number one. Whatever this is.

  
Everything hurts like a bitch.

  
His swollen eyes open to a blurry room only after the third attempt and, fucking surprise, swallowing sends fresh jolts of pain throughout his whole face, when there’s enough spit in his mouth to try. The other guy better be in worse shape.

  
It doesn’t seem like it’s the last of it, either. Pushing with his tongue against a loose molar gets him a mouthful of blood in return, when the fun little exploration reopens a tear in the muscle, and he can feel something inside his chest flare up with every exhale— pretty sure that’s where his lungs are supposed to be. Soon, it gets harder, much harder, to breathe. Cracked ribs. _Fan-fucking-tastic_.

  
His fingers are next. Wiggling them under the blankets reveals that whoever had fun with him put his ring and middle fingers out of use, too. They don’t hurt, exactly. More of a dull ache. And they just won’t fucking move. _Son of a—_

  
“You know, you’re not making a very good impression of being asleep.”  
“Sorry to disappoint.” It’s stifling under the blankets. Sweat clings to his back, yet Akira cannot stop shivering. He hears his own teeth chatter with every word. “You don’t happen to have a glass of water on hand, do you?”

  
“No, but I might have some tea.”

  
The bed dips, and Akira turns. He looks about his age, but his memory doesn’t supply anything to go by, nothing that could explain the hold unease takes on his guts. This guy- around his age, he guesses, looks friendly, the very face of perfect harmlessness, all eyes crinkled at the corners and camera-ready smile. It makes Akira want to puke.

  
“Would you feel like answering a couple of questions?”

  
The tea kettle goes off with a whistle.

  
“Is that the quid pro quo for tea?”

  
“More like- an evaluation, I suppose. Ah, please don’t be nervous, though.”

  
“Shoot.” Akira looks away. There isn’t much in the room that gives away where the hell they are, just that flat, washed away light that might belong to the early morning or to a storm, bouncing off a faux designer jet black carpet. An unremarkable city landscape photography, the cheap imitation you might expect in a hotel trying way above its rating, hangs on the wall above the bed. A small TV is mounted on the opposite side.

  
A wave of nausea crashes into him, and he almost gags, manages to swallow it down just for the sake of a neutral expression. The shivers that wrack his body can’t be helped, though. Is he running a fever?

  
“How are you feeling?”

  
“How does it look like?”

  
“Not especially well, but I haven’t had any chance to get you examined properly.” A rueful grin. “I apologize, but I cannot bring you to a hospital right at this time.”

  
Akira cocks his head to the side, and lets the voice wash over him- the most interesting sound at the moment are outside, as far as he’s concerned. Anything that could help him zero in on wherever they are. Not a single car in range, no people voices, only a few birds chirps, so they must be well off a trafficked area, perhaps on higher floors. He’s willing to bet on a residential district, easy, either early morning or before sunset.

  
“Does that,” He coughs, stops. No shit, someone beat the crap out of him somewhere in the near past, yet all he has is mental fog, a couple of mental snapshots, and the migraine ready to explode behind his eyelids. Not one cozy little hint that tells him what to do with all that. “Does that have anything to do with what happened?

  
The guy gives a slow blink, and his shoulders, until now drawn up together in tension- in anticipation?- unclench. The upturn of his lips doesn’t reassure Akira at all. “Do you remember what happened, now?”

  
Now. It’s hard to ignore the implication of that, and it makes Akira’s forehead crease, sends his brain on a scramble for anything that might have happened.

  
He exhales, slowly. What happened?

  
There is a door, in… a basement, were Akira to make a guess- there’s a table, a chair. No two-way mirror though, not like on TV. He isn’t alone. He’s kicked in the ribs, repeatedly, but cannot say how many people are in there with him, the hits already got his head spinning and his vision darkens when blood gets into his eyes.

  
He also remembers being back to the wall, trapped by car headlights like an animal.

  
Those two snapshots in his head. Before that, he sits at the booth of a Big Bang Burger and chews on a straw, in downtown Okina, with the glare from the windows hurting his eyes.

  
“They—” Akira opens his mouth to answer, pauses, and masks his hesitation with another cough. “They thought it might be fun to make me throw up my lungs.”

Good Samaritan keeps eye contact for another moment, then lets his eyes track along his face.“They?” His voice is low, gentle. He’s holding his breathe, Akira realizes.

It takes a bit of effort to repress the grimace, but he does it pretty well. Only shakes his head. “You do know who they are, don’t you?”

The asshole just looks at him, and Akira counts the seconds of silence in his head, without a single blink. He’s never lost a staring contest. _Silence, when an answer it’s expected, it’s the best way to make someone slip_ , his mother’s voice says, his own private Jiminy cricket. Akira manages to not crack into a grin at that. Feels like his head might really pop, if he does it, for a start, and he has enough pain to deal with right now.

“Do you remember who am I?” He must read the answer on his face well enough, because he continues. “I’m Akechi. We met a few months back, when your school visited the TV station.”

Akira rubs his nape, and he huffs through his nose— soft spot. Another thing to add to the tab. “There isn’t any outing planned this year, for my class.” Let alone one at the TV station. The universe doesn’t hate him that much. He narrows his eyes.

“Is that so?”  
“How long have I been asleep?”

“About four hours, technically speaking. But if you mean how long has it been since you’re here, it’s been about forty eight hours.”

Where the hell is here? Akira opens his mouth to ask, and then pauses. Whatever way he got into that mess, he doesn’t actually know for sure he’s out of it. Akechi might just be his jailer, for what he knows, however unlikely it is for the same people that fucked him over to bring him to a different place for— who knows what, exactly.

“No wonder it feels like my head is about to crack open.”

Akechi’s eyes open wide, in a way Akira bets it’s completely insincere. “I’m truly sorry. It wasn’t safe to give you analgesics in your condition.”

Not fucking helpful. Akira bites the inside of his cheek. What condition? How much time? He doesn’t remember waking up before this. Even worse, Akechi seems to expect this confusion, and relishes it, the dumb little reassuring smile still glued on his face.

“Yeah, I figured you were heartbroken about it.”

Akechi chooses to ignore that.

“I’m sure that if you can hold down some food— Ah,” He stares in fascination as Akira throws his legs over the side of the bed, gasps, and grits his teeth in pain. Closes his eyes as the room spins all around him. Akechi pushes him back onto the pillows, hand that digs into his stomach, and Akira’s lips part with silent wheezing— Thanks, asshole.

“I wouldn’t try to stand just yet, if I were you.” Intoned in that sickly sweet voice, it makes it seem he’s doing Akira a favor by hinting he’s stuck there for the foreseeable future.

“Sure you wouldn’t, buddy.” Akira tightens his already knuckle-white grip on the bed edge and huffs through his nose. Panic finally kicked in. Thousand of little red flares bursts through his addled, migraine wrecked brain, as what this will mean for him, and the realization that his left leg can’t withstand his weight— which means, which means…

Akechi would have to let him go at one point. Wouldn’t he?

“Can I have something to drink, now?” The shivers wreck his body harder this time, and he’s not sure it’s hard breathing just because of his cracked ribs. As far as Akira’s aware, no one knows where he is now, and his phone might as well be lost. There’s only Akechi’s word on how long it’s been since- it happened. He looks away. For a moment, Akechi’s stare doesn’t seem so friendly. It’s clear he wants him to play nice. Akira grinds out the next word. “Please.”

Akechi chuckles as he gets up, and switches to an appraisal pose. “Just one more thing.” His back stands at attention now, to match the plastic smile, and adds to the impression of a performance for his sake. “Akira.”  
  
Akira’s eyebrows raise.

“I apologize for the unorthodox situation. I understand why you so defensive right now— it does appear they played quite a trick on you.”

Akechi’s smile forms a dimple when Akira doesn’t trust himself with an answer. “I’m the detective who was assigned to your case— to the psychotic breakdowns and the Phantom Thieves investigation. I owe you a few answers, at the very least.”

“That sounds right out of a Featherman episode.”

Akechi laughs, and his hand falls to his side. “That’s not an unfair observation, I suppose.”

“Why—”

Akechi lifts his hand, signals him to wait. “I have to admit, I haven’t been truly fair, in trying to ascertain your condition. This isn’t the first time you woke up. Or even the third. Though it is the most coherent, by far.” His features distend into contemplation of something. “It was truly necessary to make sure you weren’t lying or in bad faith.”

Akira eyes him, forces down the instinct to clench his jaw at that— he needs to keep his cool— that’s why the whole thing pretty much smelled like a trap. But when Akechi’s hand reaches for him, his brain blacks out, and he freezes, holds his breath. His mind might have forgotten the beating, but his body sure didn’t. Akechi presses over his head, over the sore spot, and Akira winces.

“I am sure now that you aren’t faking the head trauma. Memory loss could be explained by a depressant of some sort, too. A combination of both, most likely, given how long it took for you to recover your bearings.”

“Sounds like you through a big deal of effort for me.” Keep the poker face, you idiot. Akira leans back into the pillows, and swallows back the tension building in his throat. Mr. Detective got the upper hand. His eyes follow the movement of Akira’s good hand- and that’s when Akira realizes he clenched it into a fist.

“Wouldn’t you like for me to tell you what happened?”

  
*****

  
“You know, it would be much better for you to record the broadcast— and watch it later.” A paper bag gets thrown in his lap.

“You mean, when I don’t look like I fell into a meat grinder?” Because Akira’s a delicate fucking lamb, unable to handle the heartbreaking truth. He’s also unable to listen to advice, and it’s been an enlightening fifteen minutes. From channel to channel, very little change— his suicide is enough of a big deal that Akira’s face is all over the news. His mother must be so proud. She always wanted him to follow her footsteps with a career in journalism, though she probably didn’t mean for him to be the news.

Akira peeks inside the bag. Convenience store food. Rice balls, sesame tuna steak, lettuce leaves- had much worse. He can see Akechi staring from corner of his eye. It’s been like this since he’s picked up the remote. Only surprising thing about it, the lack of questions.

Akechi seems to trust him only as far he’s stuck on the bed, because sure as hell he doesn’t bother to hide his contempt, behind the dumb little chuckles.

“Thanks for those. I was starving.” Akira squashes the queasiness in his stomach, and rips open the plastic package. Beatings and pain medication killed his hunger, but he knows how to play nice when in disadvantage. He’ll eat, and won’t throw up. Just files away in a corner of mind how wide Akechi beams at him, happy with his own magnanimity.

The news open with the more of the day’s headings, more reports about the Phantom Thieves- of course they’re gonna milk it for everything it’s worth- and his stomach drops. It’s a big fat list of crimes, even given how much time his… amnesia, spans, and fuck, does the word feel weird even in his head. If even half of it it’s true— nothing contradicts what Akechi told him. That someone is dead, because Akira planned it.

Akira picks at the rice. Something big must have happened, after that one summer, perhaps around the time of the assault charges. As Mom would have said, he’s no angel. But he never roughed up anyone— well, not really- and the most trouble he’s been pinched for had been about smoking behind the school gym.

If he cannot remember his involvement in mental shutdowns, if he cannot remember what his accomplices did or even who were they, is he the same person who is responsible for the crime?

Time to get back to the earlier question- Akechi’s awfully nosy about what he remembers from before.

“About how much I forgot.” Akira slides down into the pillows, winces. “I think I lost about two years. It’s bits and pieces, but what I remember last must have been two summers ago.” The green tea scalds his tongue, but he pays no mind. He’s gonna experience a second time the dumb first year of high school, if he even gets out from the situation.

“Didn’t know anyone outside of town back then.”

“That’s a shame.” Akechi leans back in his chair and nurses his own cup of tea, with an overdrawn, disappointed sigh. “I suppose it would have been too simple, to find out the puppet master just like that.”

“How are you even sure there’s one?”

“It’s a leap, to be fair, but strongly supported by the facts,” Akechi sets the mug down and clasps his hands behind his back, as if ready to give a speech. “You see, your group might have been only the tip of iceberg. Someone must have been sponsoring you— at least in regard to the psychotic breakdowns and two other incidents. According to my investigation, those weren’t random— not all of them. I’m fairly confident more than a few were just a cover for the actual hits on key figures- people that happened to be judges, policemen, even one man who confessed being a Yakuza boss. ” His smiles stretches thin, eyes distant under the only light bulb, and look at him beneath long eyelashes, record every twitch of Akira’s fingers, every hitch in his breath. It’s fucking unnerving. “But I have to admit I don’t have the hard proof yet. That’s why I’d very much like your cooperation.”

Akira’s eyebrows lift of their own. “You said we know each other. From before.” Himself isn’t the only person Akira saw on that TV. Akechi’s been there, too, in a interview, if nothing else a helpful hint that his job’s exactly what described, and that he isn’t just one crazy guy off the street.

There’s a long pause of contemplation after his words.

“Yes. I suppose I could say that, before knowing you were the culprit, I—” Akechi makes a show of swallowing, and looks away. “People would have called us rivals. Perhaps even friends.”

The declaration is so fucking dramatic, so weird that Akira falls silent, and turns away. It would explain the odd vibe behind that extreme friendliness, he’s forced to admit, makes his behavior far less sinister. There’s some emotion behind the words. Akechi’s dislike could be easily explained by betrayal as by anything else. It sits uneasy with him. It brings along a new wave of nausea that got nothing to do with withdrawal by GHB- in part responsible for his memory loss, according to Akechi.  
In any case, Akira should work on getting some of that goodwill back. If nothing else, they’re gonna stick together for some time.

"Is this why you got me out of there?"

Akechi brings the mug to his lips, no answer forthcoming. No doubt there’s gonna be a lot of this.

"May I have you word you will cooperate with me?” The click of ceramic against the coffee table brings Akira out of his reverie.

"So am I the kind of person you can trust the word of, after all?"

Akechi chuckles. "Does it matter much, whoever you were before getting brought in, do you think?"

"Let's say I agree." Akira turns to face him again. "What will happen to me after I recover?"

"Well, I'd appreciate if you'd consider turning yourself in as the Phantom Thieves ringleader, after we purge your employer's men from the police force."

His smile must be more of grimace, at this point. "I’d like to think that I'm not a moron."

"I will guarantee your safety, should you decide to do it willingly."

"Bold words for someone who works outside police boundaries and is aiding and abetting."

Akechi lifts his hand, like a magician showing they are empty right before a magic trick. "That's not a no."

Akira scoffs, and looks away, straight up to the ceiling. There are cracks, hair thin, that start to show through the plaster. That's what it boils down to, isn't it. Gotta make a pretty promotion for his resume. "I'm not sure what help do you expect, but yeah. Don't talk like I have much of a choice."

His guts tell him to reach out, to prod for vulnerability. When he offers his hand to shake, Akechi blinks. It takes a couple of seconds for him to take it.

*****

Five days in, and the monotony is broken by a doctor. It’s good they called him, but they should have called him earlier. His eyes fix on Akira’s features too much for him not know who he might be. He leaves a prescription, and that’s how long the visit lasts.

He never comes back to check in.

*****

At midnight, the light from the TV stains the room with the muted flickering of a dead channel.

Akira shakes the remote. Nothing.

"Hey," Akira brushes against Akechi's thigh with his foot, then winces when his body punishes him with a fresh stab of pain. Akechi's frown deepens. His eyes are still trained on the papers he's holding, but Akira can tell he stopped reading a while ago. "Hey."

"Yes?" On the other end of the couch, Akechi lowers a dossier, turns, and the lights swirl when the channel picks up the signal again. Red and purple settle on his upper face like a mask. The dark circles under his eyes deepen to bruises with the TV colors, and just for a second, his eyes shine like glass.

"Can't sleep either?"

A beat. Akechi shuffles the papers, and Akira grins. It stretches his mouth from side to side, makes him aware of the headache hidden in the back of his skull, just waiting for the good drugs to stop working.

"I can." His face declares loud and clear that surrendering the painkillers has been the single worst idea he's ever had. "But as you might notice, I have work to do."

"Looks boring." Akechi is more resistant to his attempts to get a raise out of him, now, and just smiles a little. His gaze rests vacant in the space between the TV and them. "Is that a case?"

"It's just paperwork."

His good hand down on the cushions for leverage, and Akira drags himself up with a shallow exhale. Every time he moves, his ribcage set itself alight. But hey, life as an invalid isn't so bad. At least he doesn't have to make any late grocery run anytime soon.

He bites the inside of his cheek and counts. One, two, three- sometimes it helps. Sometime it makes easier to stop and focus. But not now. Right now, even if it stopped hurting, it’s like he got crows pick at the meat of his brain.

Akechi gave up any pretense of doing paperwork, and is watching him now, crease on his forehead and eyes far less vacant that they were a moment ago. "Are the painkillers not enough? I doubt I can give you a higher dose."

"The painkillers are fine." Akira blinks. The shadows on the ceiling grow into focus. "I just don't feel like sleeping." Not like those crap dreams let him rest, anyway. His head falls back on the pillows, and he tries to focus on the sound of breathing instead.

The slow drizzle of rain, outside, mingles with the buzz of static, severs them apart from the outside world, like they're trapped in a box.

"Hey," He says again, holds his breaths, one, two seconds, and releases. His leg, in its cast, it's still the inescapable proof he can't even get up and make some tea his damn self."Can you make some tea? Please?" Akira’s smile folds back to something less feral, or so he hopes.

It’s not long before Akechi places a mug on the coffee table next to him.

Akira’s hand reaches for the it— but it’s the wrong fucking hand.

His grip falters, with the cast in the way, and the mugful of hot tea pours on the floor. That’s the humiliating part— when he forgets about the cast, about his fingers, broken, and just try to clasp them around an object, be it chopsticks, the remote, a glass of water, and watch them clatter to the ground.

Akechi swapped the chopsticks for a spoon, and the glass for plastic, in the last couple of days. Not that it makes any fucking difference.

They both stare at the puddle with a frown. Akechi disappointed he gets to mop it up, probably.

Whatever friendship he says they shared, it’s dead and buried with his apparent suicide. What a way to go.

“Never mind.” The answer’s short, clipped, and Akira can see a hint of teeth that’s not a smile on his face. Doesn’t last long, just the time to blink and fold it back into a sheepish smile. “I forgot you’re clumsy.”

He’s been fraying at the edges for a few days now, with lack of sleep and outings that last longer and longer, and leave Akira wondering if he’s gonna starve before feeling well enough to make it down the stairs. No elevator in the building, from what he’s been told. No crutches either, because buying them would make people suspicious. He’s got the feeling that’s not the whole reason.

Akira would kill to get out of the apartment. Fuck. Maybe he should take up again his previous job, if he remembers how he magicked it all in the first place. He gets Akechi, though. He’s been there. He is there.

All in all, it’s what he imagines living at a college campus must feel like, minus parties and attending lectures. Akira’s parts his lips in a halfhearted grin.

It makes Akechi frown when he does that, and that might be half the reason he’s taken up the habit. So much for gaining goodwill. It’s like he expects something to come out of it. Akira can see why, after all the broadcasts reruns. He wonders if that’s what obsession feels like.

That compulsion to find something of himself in the pretty little picture the press paints, channel after channel, newspaper after newspaper.

“You’ve been going out a lot.” It surprises him too, to hear the words from his own mouth. Maybe waking up alone during day and night, from nightmares, affected him more that he to tried to suppress. “Investigation going well?”

“That’s classified.” Akechi smiles with his liar mouth, in that way that means he’s joking but not really.

“That’s cold.” Akira drops his head against the pillow, closes his eyes. “Here I thought you would make me your assistant, by now.”

“Hah, I wouldn’t think that might fly with the police department. I would be able to request you as a consultant at best, in the most ideal circumstances.”

“Shame.” Akira glances at him through half-lidded eyes. Akechi’s eyes are always looking, but for what. “Maybe you can consider that, after it’s all solved. You know, instead of getting me a discount on the several life sentences.”

Akechi chuckles. “I will think about it.”

_Sure you will, asshole_. Akira’s head sinks back into the pillows and he closes his eyes again.

He’s sure Akechi is lying. He just isn’t sure about what.

“How would you feel about udon for dinner?” He diverts.

“Works for me.” Akira shrugs. Not like he can complain, with everything going on Akechi’s tab. Something moves uneasily in his gut. He cracks an eye open. Akechi stopped looking at him, finally, sometimes in the last couple of minutes, and he’s staring at the turned off TV with a lost stare. Maybe he also doesn’t know what to do. “Why are you even awake this late, by the way? Thought you had a job schedule.”

“I apologize, I wasn’t aware you’ve become one of my direct superiors.”

“Point taken.” The rain has stopped. Akira closes his and holds his breath. There aren’t sounds coming from outside, and the only noises he can hear are their breaths, into the wet, night air. He can feel the breeze from the window on his face. This is bullshit. Being trapped in a three-room flat with a detective who has no answers to give, it’s fucking bullshit.

Akechi joins his hands together and leans forward, frowns, lips into a thin line. Akira can hear water dripping from the sink, keeping time.

“There’s a difficult situation.” He finally says.

“At work?”

Akechi grins. “Not exactly, thought it is part of it.”

“So, what’s it about?”

Akechi picks at his gloves. “My supervisor asked me to deal with a few unpleasant eyewitnesses who won’t cooperate, and I’m thinking how to go about it. However, I have reason to believe that he is involved in your accident cover-up.”

That’s sure a way to call it. “Can’t you report him?”

“It isn’t the right time for it.”

“Is it because of lack of evidence?”

“Not quite.” Akechi’s steps move toward the kitchen, and he doesn’t answer. He’s pouring a second mug of tea.

“You’re in deep shit, aren’t you?” No answers come, but it’s not like Akira expects any. He huffs through his nose, thinking, and presses his cheek against the couch. “Tell me more about this case.”

“Why?”

He scoffs. “Because I’m bored out of my mind, and I can help.”

The look Akechi gives him next is unlike any that came before it. By the window, his eyes mirror the streetlights, like the cold neon light comes from within. It’s like ants on his skin. He has to force himself to keep his own stare steady while he’s under examination like some kind of fucking bug.

It’s a long moment before Akechi seems to decide that whatever he expected isn’t there. When it reappears, his smile has too many teeth to it. “Thank you, Akira.” He sighs. “There’s six- seven, excuse me, of them.” This time, the mug of tea is lifted to his face by Akechi, and Akira grips it hard, to hide the tremor in his hands. Their fingers brush against each other. “Four are women. Nothing remarkable about any of them, but they are all fairly stubborn.”

“So it’s a matter of persuasion.”

“It could be.” Akechi stares in the depths of the mug like he expects it to surrender a secret. “I need to move fast. Their compliance would be key in allowing me to bring down a— very unsavory individual, but it doesn’t appear like they’d consider to cooperate just because I ask.”

“I hear blackmail is good for that.” Akira grins, distantly, and shifts forward as much as he can, ignores how it sends him in cold sweat. Hey, some things are worth the sacrifice. “It’s the- other Phantom Thieves you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Akechi is close enough he count the specks of color in his eyes, intent on some thought. They flicker to meet his again when Akira nudges him.

Akira thinks back on the news. Think about the censored death of CEO of Big Bang Burger, played over and over, and forces himself to go on.

“What can you tell me about each of them?”

*****

Akira shudders when he breaks free from the nightmare, and clenches his jaw. He was wrong. Life as an invalid fucking sucks. A hand presses against his mouth— just like every other time he woke up in the middle of the night during the previous week, makes it hard to breathe. Akechi is looking down on him.

Akechi, whose weight pins him down to the mattress, careful to not hurt, and fists his finger tight in the sweatshirt Akira wears, so that he won’t trash away.

Akechi, who offers Akira his shoulder to lean on, and moves him through the apartment every time he needs to fucking shower. Who helps him lift the shirt over the head.

Akechi, who could just walk away and leave him to the fun experience of slow starvation, leave and not come back until Akira’s head thrums with hunger and the only thing left is stale tea, no phone, and five flights of stairs between himself and the outside world. Akira swallows. His fingers clench around air, and it’s only self control that stops him from clinging to him.

He's fucking sick of it. Akira shuts down the tension in his body away, and turns himself pliant against his hold. Akechi blinks. On the next exhale, his fingers curl the tiniest fraction around his jaw. It’s been a few days of this bullshit now, and no sign of it becoming a rare occurrence- if nothing else, it happens more and more. He would wake up, usually around 4AM, and make enough noise to wake half the floor. Akechi would be there, not even one away, ready to stop him.

Akira speaks against his palm, and tastes salt. "I'm okay now."

A few seconds pass before he moves his hand away, to the side of his head. But his weight settles on his good leg more, and the grip on his shoulder doesn't loosen. His face looks tired, his eyes swollen, like he didn't even get the time to rub the sleep off. "Do you need the sleeping pills?"

Akira thinks about the blue prison, thinks about the guards kicking and kicking his teeth in, about throwing up blood. The pills won't let him wake up from the nightmares. He shakes his head, and a thought freezes in his brain. Akechi could make him take them. It would be easier for him, than waking up every other night to calm him down and risk them being discovered. Just slip the invalid some pills so that he won't be a fucking nuisance. "No.” He bites back please. “Thanks."

"This is the fifth consecutive night." Akechi studies his face for a few moments, lifts his hand as if to touch Akira's face, but aborts the gesture. "It's going to make your recovery much slower."

"Yeah, well, I'm in no hurry of ending up in juvie." And that's the best outcome out of all those opening up before him. He might be a minor now, but his crimes are big enough they might authorize the death penalty at some point. Or make him a brainwashed lab rat, if even half of what Akechi said is true. Akira never liked cages much.  
"I know it keeps you awake too, it's just-" Akira folds his mouth in a thin smile, forces his eyes to express gratitude. "I'm sorry."

Akechi nods, and seem to suddenly realize he's straddling his leg. He swings his own over and walks away, head turned the other direction."We still need to find a way to make it stop." He shakes his head, shakes off whatever thought took hold there. His voice is wary, like he's cracking under pressure.

Akira doesn't think it's just the lack of sleep. Water drips from the sink, steady, steady. "Hope you're not gonna suggest a gag," Gulping down of air hurts like drinking battery acid. "You didn't buy me dinner yet."

The silence that follow contemplative. The next glance tells him this: his expression might be wiped away. But the asshole is considering it. "No fucking way."

"I'm close to solving- all this, and it's necessary that I won't be a dead man walking when that happens." Akechi's tone is icy. "I hope you do have suggestions."

Best option would be to have them sleep in two separate places. Akira opens his mouth, wets his lips. Nothing comes out. Logistical problems aside, having Akechi move him somewhere else would mean he wakes up alone in the room. It takes two minutes before he fully wakes up from the nightmares, and this is when Akechi shakes him awake. He doesn't want to wake up alone. Akira swallows, and doesn't look at him. His throat still hurts. "I've got nothing."  
It's gonna be either the pills or, or- nothing. Fucking awesome.

"You need to take them," Akechi's words echo his thoughts, and his next words fill with distaste. "If you want to stay alive- and me to be alive too- we need to not draw any attention."

Akira exhales, nods. "I know." A beat. "I'll take the pills." No need for any further humiliation after this, thanks.

Akechi's features soften. "It's going to be just a few days. You might get better if you rest and try sleeping normally after that."

"Sure." He presses his lips together. "Just- not right now. We're already awake, and-"

"That's fine." Some hesitation, at least. "Are you dreaming about the police station?"

"Yeah, kind of."

A new crease forms on Akechi's forehead. "That would mean?"

"You know, usual dream stuff." Akira tries to wave it away with his hands. The expectant silence means no such luck. "Like when dream your house, but it goes on and on forever. Like a maze."

"The police station as a maze doesn't sound the kind of nightmare that makes you wake up screaming."  
Akira incinerates him with a look. "Yeah, no shit. You know what happen in the fucking station. You can see I've been stuck on a bed for half a month. Aren't you a detective?"

His stomach drops as soon as the words are out of his mouth, when the frown on Akechi's face deepens and his lips flatten to a line. Good job pissing off the person who can go out and get him food.

"Sorry. Again." Akira bites out. "I know you're trying to help."

"It's fine- but you can see why I'm suggesting we both try to sleep with no interruptions." His mouth curls in a plastic smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Akira breathes in, searches his thoughts for anything that might keep Akechi's good graces. "I- you have your reasons to want me gone, but you still saved my ass." Surprise and something else settles on his face, just at that much. Akechi even looks away. He might be onto something there. "I know that too. I'll try to be less-" Akira gestures vaguely with the good hand. "Less of a jerk."

More silence from his side, and it's only an ambulance siren, outside, that breaks it up.

"You're still recovering. It's expected that you'd demonstrate leftover stress after a trauma of that degree." Akechi looks down, his eyes hidden from Akira's view.

"Yeah, well, still makes me an asshole." Breathing becomes a little easier. They both pause at that. The sirens fade away in the distance, and leave place to the hiss of the wind. Akechi walks closer. When the bed dips, and he is then close enough to touch him, it's Akira's turn for some wariness. Akechi's looking at his hands, not at him, not at the TV.

Not frowning, either, just a blank look that tells Akira nothing.

"When-" Akira licks his lips. "Tell me more about how we became friends, before."

Akechi shakes his head just a fraction, hesitates, and gives up with a sigh. "I looked for you at the TV station. You got picked during and interview and challenged my views."

"It does sound like something I'd do." Going off-script has always been fun.

"When I finished being recorded, we went out to eat. We got pancakes." Akechi glances at him, tracks his reaction- perhaps he hopes he would remember it, at some point. Nothing as useless as a witness who can't tell he's been on the crime scene. "A couple of your classmates came with us."

"Were they looking for an autograph?" Moderate flattery will get you many places, his mother supplies in his mind.

"Possibly." Akechi cracks a smile that reaches his eyes, this time. "I also discovered you can drink a lot of coffee."

"Gotta keep myself going somewhat." He grins at nothing, up at the wooden ceiling. The neon lights outside make the defects in the wood move. "Feels like forever ago since I had any."

Akechi reaches out and lies a hand on the cast. His fingers tighten around it, and don't move away when Akira holds his next exhale. _Careful, don’t ruin it_. Suddenly, he feels dizzy, not just nauseated. _This is what you're after_. "I could do with some fries too." He wonders, distantly, if rambling could pay off somewhat. From where he's looking, Akechi looks much more relaxed that he's been in a few days, if still tired. “And some coffee after."

"Might be a good idea to not mix coffee and medication." Akechi's voice takes on an amused tilt.

Akira closed his eyes. He pictures taking a sip of coffee, that kind of powdery, much too sugary cup, half coffee and half cocoa milk, you can get in any Big Bang Burger. "Yeah. A guy can dream, though."

"Try to get some rest, Akira."

He doesn't feel like he can fall asleep just yet. When he glances at Akechi's again, his features are shadowed. His thumb tracks a path along the crack on Akira's cast. Akira shivers. Akechi wouldn’t keep up his defenses forever, not with how much they were talking. But he won’t either. The question is who will give in faster.

*****

The doctor’s death is announced on the news. Car accident. Painkillers numb Akira’s brain too much to feel anything.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> 05/02/2019: I ask forgiveness of everyone who’s ever read this. I didn’t even notice ao3 ate the separation between scenes.
> 
> Coming back to the story soon.


End file.
